


Sundown, Sundown

by ThayerKerbasy



Series: What Comes Next [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Afterlife, Canon Compliant, Gen, POV Crowley, Post-Episode: s12e23 All Along the Watchtower
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-21 22:56:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11367363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThayerKerbasy/pseuds/ThayerKerbasy
Summary: Crowley was done.  After hundreds of years and one last sacrifice, he was done.  Except, somehow, he wasn't.





	Sundown, Sundown

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thank you [grey2510](http://archiveofourown.org/users/grey2510) for looking this over and fixing my idiotic mistakes. You make me look better than I am.

Crowley startled awake in the most comfortable of the uncomfortable chairs in the library of the Winchesters’ clubhouse. On his lap lay an issue of Busty Asian Beauties that was several years out of date. When he moved his hands to page through it, that’s when he noticed the Enochian handcuffs encircling his wrists. But that couldn’t be— 

An exasperated Moose said, “Okay Crowley, we have gone through the records for the entire membership in 1958. Every single name matches the men who were killed.”

Slowly, Crowley raised his head to look. Several feet away sat Dean Winchester, giving a file folder a disgusted glare. Across the table from him, Sam leaned over with his hands braced on the table, looking expectantly at Crowley. It was all terribly familiar, like the worst case of déjà vu in the history of the world, or a really good dream recapping recent highlights. There was something he was supposed to say though, wasn’t there?

Oh right. “That would be the active membership, correct? Were you two dropped on your heads a great deal? Like I told you, rumour has it that a rogue member was tossed out on his arse. Does that make him ‘active’? Seriously, boys, how did you ever function without me?”

The words came easily to his tongue, just like when he had spoken them before. He had gone through detox for his human blood addiction and was helping the brothers to track down the First Blade. It had been one of very few times he had been allowed inside their bunker, and the first as something other than a prisoner, despite the handcuffs.

The boys exchanged glances, then packed up the box of files they had been reading. Dean retrieved a different box from the floor by his feet and read off the label, “Infamati et obliterati.”

“Dishonoured and forgotten,” Crowley translated easily. 

They were searching through the Men of Letters’ files for Cuthbert “Magnus” Sinclair — though they didn’t know it yet — and Crowley was assisting with their leaps in logic. Honestly, they were earnest and hardworking lads, but they should have teamed up with him more often. Who knew how much more they would have accomplished if he had been by their side. Hunters across the country would say his name with the same reverence as that of Castiel when they were recounting tales of epic deeds.

Pain shot through his belly for the briefest instant, accompanied by a flash of grey. More like the memory of pain, like a dream gone wrong, really. It lasted only for a moment, then gone again like it had never happened.

Though he knew he would find nothing, he still checked his midsection for injuries. The chain between his cuffs clinked softly as he moved, limiting his movement and shutting down his powers. There would be no teleporting out if danger were to arise. Of course, if everything played out like it had before, there would be no real danger.

As he had expected, there was no injury. Already, the memory of that pain was fading and he wondered if he hadn’t imagined it. There was a glass of mediocre Scotch sitting to his right within reach, and over at the table, the brothers were flipping through old Men of Letters files. If he recalled correctly, some discussion would ensue about Cuthbert Sinclair and his various accomplishments, followed by a realization that he was likely the one they sought. It would lead to a field trip to obtain the First Blade.

Everything proceeded exactly as anticipated, leaving Crowley to wonder how he had gone back in time. There wasn’t a single explanation that made sense, but time travel was the most logical. Having never time travelled personally, he couldn’t be sure. Still, every other explanation was riddled with holes.

With that sorted, Crowley decided to continue to play along until he could learn why he had been sent back to that particular moment. It might have been random, in which case it wasn’t a big deal, but if there had been a purpose he was meant to accomplish, it was best to be where he was meant to be.

Sam asked where he had looked for Cuthbert Sinclair and Crowley answered, explaining as clearly as possible the steps he had taken to try to locate the man. As had happened before, the boys gathered what they would need for a few days’ travel, then escorted Crowley through the bunker’s hallways in the direction of the garage. However, instead of the garage, he emerged from the hallway into a bar bearing evidence of a brawl, and deserted but for one Dean Winchester.

A glance over his shoulder revealed no hallway and no sign there had ever been one. Nothing but more of the same local pub, the one not that far from the place the Winchesters called home. When he looked back, Dean had grabbed a bottle from the bar and poured himself a drink.

“Been waiting on you,” said Dean, as he raised the glass to his lips. He drank, maintaining eye contact the entire time.

“Squirrel,” replied Crowley. He might not have understood how he came to be where he was again, but he knew what he was supposed to say. The script was engraved upon his memories, one of the brightest spots among centuries of darkness.

“Boris. Where’s Natasha?”

“Would it make a difference?”

“Not really.” Dean inhaled deeply and drained his glass. “So, we gonna do this?”

Crowley moved — slowly so as not to set off Dean’s highly-trained reflexes — over to the bar and let himself through the latched door. “Gimme a mo'. Conversation like this requires alcohol the likes of which this place can’t afford, so I suppose I’ll be mixing something. Pour yourself something, too. I’ll square the bill with the bartender when he comes back.”

While Dean refilled his glass, Crowley mixed himself the same drink that Dean had once bought for him, what felt like ages ago. Was it truly only a year? On a whim, he added all the same little decorations and garnishes as that other drink had sported. When he skewered the lime quarter and blackberry on the little plastic pitchfork, Dean chuckled. So very little made Dean genuinely laugh during those Mark of Cain days, so Crowley counted it a small victory.

He was so immersed in the moment that he briefly forgot it had already happened before. Once he was seated, though, the words came tumbling out without conscious thought. He told the tale of his mother’s misdeeds, explaining what she claimed Dean had done to her, even though Crowley already knew the truth of how it all ended. It was a necessary part of a whole and the catalyst for what came after.

Despite the conversation following its preordained path, Crowley felt like he could have stopped at any point to go somewhere else. His mind shied away from a great many possibilities, but he felt he had options open to him, and they presented themselves in his head like a scrapbook of times gone by. He was rather partial to the one he was already experiencing, though, so he allowed it to continue.

Dean refuted Rowena’s accusations and shot her story to bits, proving her to be the liar Crowley had always known her to be, deep down. He had wanted so badly to believe she had changed, but when push came to shove, he believed Dean over her without a second thought. When they called each other liars, it was in a friendly manner, each knowing the other better than they knew themselves. It was a level of trust and understanding that Crowley had long ago stopped believing was possible until somehow, it was.

They both lifted their glasses to take another sip, filling the silence just that much longer before someone needed to speak again. Setting his glass back down, Crowley could feel the weight of the conversation pressing down upon him, demanding that he speak. If it were any other situation, he likely would have fought it, just to see if he could, but not this.

He gave in without a struggle. “She says I’ve gone soft.”

For the second time in a few minutes, Dean chuckled. “You have.”

Falling easily into the past, Crowley turned to glance inquiringly, and Dean obliged by continuing. “Yeah, maybe it’s all the human blood that Sammy pumped into you, you know? Maybe it’s, uh— I don’t know. I don’t know. But the old Crowley, he would’ve come in here with hellhounds and demons, and he would’ve blown the roof off the joint. Now? You didn’t want to fight. You wanted to talk.” He paused, considering. “And maybe I’ve changed, too. Here I am playing Dr. Phil to the King of Hell. Heh, never saw that coming.”

“Maybe we’re getting old.”

“Never saw that coming, either.” He refilled his glass and continued, “What is it, huh? Why you letting Mommy Dearest tie you into knots?”

He knew what came next. It was the part that made the whole conversation so memorable. Crowley remembered the eye-opening sense of awe he had felt at the revelation. “Because... we’re family. Blood.”

“That’s not the same thing. A wise man once told me, ‘family don’t end in blood’. But it doesn’t start there, either. Family _cares_ about you, not about what you can do for them. Family’s there through the good, bad — all of it. They got your back… even when it hurts. _That’s_ family. That sound like your mother?”

Of course it didn’t. Crowley couldn’t remember a single time his mother had truly been there for him without an ulterior motive. Others had, though. A very select few had been there for him through the good and the bad, had worked together with him instead of capitalizing on his misfortune. They weren’t perfect, but no one was. They had been there for him, and they were his family.

He couldn’t make it last any longer. It was the end of their conversation, and staying would change things that should never be changed. Reluctantly, he stood, abandoning his drink, and tossed a few bills onto the bar. “That should cover it.”

Making his way towards the door, he paused and turned for some parting words. “Thanks for the chat. It’s... a lot to think about, but for now, there’s someone in my palace who’s overstayed their welcome.”

Dean raised his glass to that. Crowley smiled fondly, then opened the door and left, a spring in his step that had been absent before.

On the other side of the door should have been a parking lot with cracked grey asphalt and faded white lines delineating empty parking spaces. Instead, Crowley was inside a moving vehicle, sitting in the passenger seat. As he had been the entire time they were road tripping across the country, Castiel was behind the wheel. There was, of course, no sign of the door to the pub.

Given the state of the trees they were passing, it was easy to guess where he had landed. It was late autumn, and since they weren’t in California, it was after the whole Vince Vincente fiasco. That meant it was during the period when they were following the trail of Lucifer’s discarded vessels. If he were to hazard a guess, he would have to say they were on their way to investigate the body of Wallace Scott, CEO of far too much.

The radio was tuned to a local pop station, playing a song Crowley had heard entirely too many times over the past month and change. He and Castiel had an agreement, though, so he kept his hands off the dial. Theirs was a delicate partnership, full of tentative unspoken things, and neither wanted to rock the boat after finally reaching an accord. Angels and demons were never meant to remain in such close proximity for such an extended period of time without turning on one another. They were both guilty of many things, but being an average representative of their species was not among those things.

They rode in relative silence, for once, apart from the song on the radio. Crowley remembered a time when he hadn’t known all the words to the latest One Direction song. In some ways, those had been happier times, but he still wouldn’t go back there. He would suffer through all the mindless pop music all over again if it meant he got to keep the rest of it.

In the middle of the song, Castiel interrupted the boy band’s insipid tune. “I guess you can change the radio station for a little while. If that’s something you’d want to do.”

Pausing with his hand halfway to the dial, Crowley asked, “You sure?”

Without taking his eyes off the road, Castiel replied, “I’ve heard enough. You deserve a turn.”

Crowley wasn’t about to ask twice. He didn’t even use his powers, tuning the radio with his fingertips. He bypassed a country station, Christian rock, talk radio, and some Indie underground business, before landing on the local golden oldies station. He tuned in halfway through Tom Petty’s “I Won’t Back Down” and the song finished without Castiel uttering a single word of protest.

The late autumn sun shone through the windows making it feel warmer inside the vehicle than out. Crowley closed his eyes and basked in the warmth of the sunbeam. Lee Hazlewood and Nancy Sinatra sang a bittersweet love song and for a moment he felt transported in time — which, given current circumstances, was odd — freed from his many obligations to simply enjoy.

The song ended, at which point the radio announcer felt it necessary to earn those advertising dollars. Soaking up the sun with his eyes closed wasn’t the same with a background advertisement, so Crowley reluctantly sat up in his seat and opened his eyes. In that brief instant, he caught a glimpse of Castiel staring at him from the corner of his eye. “Like what you see, sweetheart?”

Castiel’s eyes snapped back to staring straight ahead. “No, it’s not that. It’s just...I should hate you. I should want to smite you dead until nothing remains of you but a greasy smear. Your soul is a mangled wreck of an abomination. I can’t see you ever redeeming yourself, so the right thing here should be to put you down like a rabid dog.”

Even hearing it a second time didn’t make it any easier. “So, why don’t you? You’ve certainly had ample opportunity.”

“Because you’re trying. Because I know what it’s like to do your best and still not be good enough. Because...even if you never get there, I think I’d forever regret not giving you the chance.” Castiel sighed and his shoulders slumped. “Maybe just because I know what it’s like to be caught between two worlds, never quite fitting in either.”

Crowley scoffed. “Bugger that. We fit in just fine. I swear, if politicians can pass for human, we’re doing splendid.”

“I suppose that’s true.” After a moment’s consideration, he continued, “My point is, I can’t hate you because for a demon, you’re somehow not entirely horrible, but I’m genetically predisposed to want to kill you. It’s difficult.”

“Watch yourself, Sparkles. Go easy on the compliments or you might make me feel wanted.”

“I don’t think there’s any danger of that happening.” 

Though Castiel’s face remained as impassive as ever, there was a slight crinkling at the corners of his eyes that would only have been noticeable to those who knew him well. There were countless people in the world who smiled falsely with their whole face but it never reached their eyes. Castiel was the only one Crowley had ever met who smiled genuinely with just his eyes. It was nice to travel with someone who knew how to keep their emotions where they belonged.

The ads finished and the radio announcer promised songs by The Temptations, Aretha Franklin, and Tom Jones, and still Castiel made no move to change the station. On one hand, Crowley had gone through it all before and knew it was a good lineup. He knew for certain he would be uninterrupted until they hit St. Louis and was free to enjoy a quiet moment with someone who he might have called a friend if he had been a different species. On the other hand, he had gone through it before and knew what to expect. There were no surprises waiting for him if he stayed put.

With a sigh, Crowley double-checked the facts in his head. Both of the times he had gone elsewhere had been after he was done and ready to leave, and both times he had gone through a door. He was half-tempted to stay put, enjoy himself, and see what would happen if he didn’t move. 

Halfway through the first song, he caved. He had a theory and he wanted to test it. Sparing half a moment to wish he had a minion around to test it for him, Crowley took a deep breath, pulled the door handle, and shoved the door open. Wind whipped past and the road zoomed by at disturbing speeds. If Crowley were to fall, his meatsuit would suffer damage that would require the services of an experienced witch.

In the driver’s seat, Castiel continued to drive, apparently oblivious. Bracing himself, Crowley slid around so he sat facing the door, his feet on the step. With one arm, he held the door open and with the other, he held onto the interior. He was calculating the best way to fall when he allowed one foot to slip off the step.

The melodious voices of The Temptations became cheerful bird songs and in that instant, the wind was gone. With no sense of having gone anywhere, Crowley stood in an ancient forest. There was no sign Castiel had ever been there, but directly in front of him sat his hellhound, Juliet. Where she should have stood nearly as tall as him, she instead only came up to his knee.

He didn’t even bother to fight the smile that tugged at his lips. The previously-lived moment suggested that he should pet her, and he didn’t fight that either. He ruffled her ears and scratched the back of her head and said, “Good dog, Juliet.”

Having trained all of his hellhounds from tiny pups, he had plenty of memories of time spent with them in various locales. Despite that, he knew immediately when it was. She was a few months old and he was teaching her to hunt wild game. She could reliably catch a mouse released in Hell, but she was having difficulty tracking wild rabbits. The memory he had fallen into was the day she caught the rabbit, after which he had spent the afternoon playing with her as praise.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat somewhere behind him. In his memory, it had only ever been Crowley and Juliet, so by all rights, there shouldn’t have been anyone there. Keeping one hand on Juliet’s head, he turned around.

He probably shouldn’t have been surprised — the past however long had been one blast from the past after another — but all the same, Crowley hadn’t expected to ever see Bobby Singer again. The man himself leaned up against a tree, looking somehow even older than when he had died, and yet also somehow more content. He also had no business being anywhere near Juliet’s training exercises.

Giving Juliet one last pat, Crowley got up and brushed off his suit. Then, donning his most charming smile, he said, “Bobby. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Predictably, Bobby rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Nice to see you too, sweet cheeks. Nice dog. Ain’t what I thought a hellhound ’d look like, but here we are. Now, say goodbye to Rover and let’s get outta here before I’m caught somewhere I ain’t supposed to be.”

Without waiting for a response, Bobby stepped over to a pair of trees whose branches had grown tangled together. He gave the trees a quick once-over, then took a piece of chalk from his pocket and drew on one of the trees at about chest height. The finished product was vaguely familiar, but Crowley couldn’t quite place it.

If nothing had changed, Crowley could have happily played with wee pup Juliet for hours on end. He couldn’t bear a riddle without an answer, though, so he ruffled her ears and said, “Good girl, Juliet. You’re such a good dog. Papa has to go now, but I’ll be back to play with you later.”

The sigil on the tree trunk taunted him with its familiarity, but it remained nothing more than a scrawled chalk drawing. Bobby looked at him expectantly. “Well, Your Highness? I ain’t got all day. You comin’ or what?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I hope you can explain what the hell is going on.”

“You haven’t figured it out yet? I woulda thought you were smarter ‘n that.” Indicating the gap between the trees, he continued, “Follow or don’t, but I gotta go.”

Bobby stepped through the indicated empty space and promptly vanished. With one last glance back at Juliet — who had seemingly ignored the entire proceedings and had begun to dig a hole — Crowley straightened the lapels on his suit and stepped through the gap.

There was no sense of transition whatsoever, just like with the doors. He walked through and it was like the other place had never existed. Instead, he stood in the overly-cluttered yet welcoming study from Bobby’s home as it had been when its owner had been among the living. The only thing that was different were the chalked sigils all over the walls and doors. Most of them were in Enochian and said things like, “Nobody home”, “Look away”, or “No angels allowed”, though some had much more colourful language. Unconventional though they might have been, they seemed effective.

For his part, Bobby flopped into the most comfortable chair in the room, poured himself a drink, and said, “Well? What ‘ve you guessed?”

“At first I thought it was time travel,” Crowley replied. “Memories playing out exactly as they had the first time, seemed the only possibility. But between you and the fact that I keep jumping from one to the next, that’s out. Putting it all together, there’s only one logical conclusion, but...it can’t be.”

The smile on Bobby’s face grew to an amused smirk. He dug out another glass, half-filled it, and offered it to Crowley who took it and sniffed it. Despite Bobby’s habit of drinking six day old rotgut, the contents of the glass smelled like nothing but Craig. He directed a questioning look at Bobby, then took a sip. Though the flavours were all oddly muted, it was sharp and peaty with hints of allspice, then zesty citrus and tobacco that grew creamier the longer the taste sat in his mouth. “Since when the hell do you have Craig on offer?”

Bobby sniffed his own glass appreciatively. “Since just now? This ain’t Craig in my glass. Tell ya what, let’s start elsewhere. Last you knew, what happened to me?”

“Not to be indelicate, but I last I was told, you were dead. Have been these past four and a half years now, I believe?”

“Right. And how ‘bout you?”

Flash of grey. Stabbing gut pain. Red lightning. “I’m...dead.”

“Condolences. So, since this ain’t the basement, an’ it ain’t that washed out monster graveyard, that sorta eliminates everythin’ but the truth.”

“Not that I doubt you — I have to admit, I considered and discarded the idea myself — but why the bloody hell would the God Squad allow a _demon_ into Paradise?”

Bobby cocked an eyebrow. “I dunno what you done down there, but think about it, numbnuts. Demons ‘re just souls, you know that. Sure, you sold yours, you went to Hell, got demonized, came out made o’ smoke with a spiffy new attitude. That don’t change the fact that you’re still a damn soul. Ain’t nothin’ been corrupted that can’t be redeemed again.” He took another sip, then raised his glass. “Congrats. You’re a former demon, now Heaven’s most controversial resident.”

It was rare for Crowley to be at a loss for words, but he felt entitled to a moment. To buy time, and possibly to fortify himself, he took another hearty mouthful of his drink. _A former demon._ After he had worn the Enochian handcuffs at first, he hadn’t even noticed that his powers hadn’t returned when his hands had been free at the bar. Crowley had been a demon for centuries — his mortal life was a mere blip in comparison. It was hard to imagine what he was, if not a demon.

The spices in the whisky mellowed on his tongue as he considered his situation. Dead though he was, his sense of self-preservation remained intact. “As delightful as I’m sure you find my company, somehow I doubt you yanked me out of my personal highlights reel purely for my sparkling personality.”

The smile still lurked on Bobby’s lips as he tossed back the rest of his drink. Setting his glass down on the side table, he got to his feet. “I got one question for you first. When you did whatever it was that earned your admission through the Pearly Gates, were you with Sam an’ Dean?”

“I was.”

“Good. In that case, it’d be easier to just show you.”

Bobby fished his piece of chalk out of his pocket again, erased an existing sigil with the palm of his hand, then drew another. The new sigil was circular with a few curving lines inside and some squiggles inside each divided section. It was also incredibly familiar, and Crowley had the sense that he’d last seen it in a book, though his memory chose that moment to prove that it was no longer augmented in any way.

Stuffing the chalk back into his pocket, Bobby opened the door and waited. “After you, Your Majesty.”

Crowley couldn’t help snapping back, “Don’t call me that. I’m king of nothing now.”

“Sure thing, princess.”

“I’ll have you know, I spent a day as the only princess of a small European country in the mid-1800s, and it’s highly overrated. Too much time spent on the beauty regimen and the art of being artfully useless and no personal freedom. Not at all as one might imagine.”

“Can we please just go?”

It was Crowley’s turn to roll his eyes. Stalling was easier than facing what awaited him on the other side, but he did step through the open door. His foot had barely crossed the threshold before he was in a new place.

Dust hung in the air, a haze illuminated by the faint light from the various hanging lamps. The floor bore the foot scuffs of years of visitors, and every wooden surface had been banged and scraped at one point or another, but now it was all covered in chalked sigils. It was the sort of bar where Bobby Singer would blend right in and Crowley would draw every eye in the room.

Notably, it was also a bar full of people. There was a delectable young woman playing a target shooting game, a woman who could have been — and probably was — her mother tending bar, and a fellow with a mullet who looked like a roadie for a rock band sat on a bar stool, with a beer and a bizarre monstrosity of a laptop. The roadie techie was having an animated conversation with a grey-haired man with spectacles and a redheaded woman where they kept referring back to the laptop. Over at a table were a young brunette woman and an older black man having what looked like a good-natured argument entirely via sign language.

From behind him, Bobby said, “Ladies and gentlemen, listen up!” He waited until the older man got the young brunette’s attention for him before continuing. “This here’s Crowley. Don’t let the suit fool you, he’s as much a stubborn do-gooding asshole as the rest of us. Damn fool went an’ got himself killed helpin’ the Winchester boys.”

There were murmurs and nods around the room, while the man at the bar shook his head and raised his beer in a salute. When the murmurs died down, Bobby continued, “Crowley, I’d like to introduce you to our lovely bartender, Ellen. Her husband Bill's in the back right now, I’d imagine. An’ their daughter Jo over there tryin’ to beat her own high score. At the bar are our resident techie geniuses, Charlie, Frank, an’ Ash, whose personal heaven is playin’ host to us all. Sittin’ at that table ‘re Eileen an’ Rufus. Eileen can’t hear us, so make good an’ sure she can see you ‘fore you start talkin’.”

As each was introduced, they raised a hand or a hand holding a drink to confirm their identity. Crowley toasted the room at large with his glass. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance. I still have no idea what’s going on here.”

Bobby’s hand clapped down on his shoulder and gave him a gentle shove in the direction of the trio at the bar. “That’s what we’re gonna go discuss with Ash.”

Crowley moved, as much to prevent any further shoving as anything else. Despite being in a bar, he still felt protective of his glass of Craig which might or might not have been a one time deal. He felt a reflexive desire to teleport directly there, but when nothing happened, he buried it deep down along with his wish for someone who gave a damn about him.

The trio at the bar watched as Crowley and Bobby approached them. The redhead (Charlene?) whispered something to mullet man, then gave Crowley a dubious look over her cola can. The bespectacled fellow had been casting him suspicious glances from the start. On the laptop’s screen were what looked like fluctuating high pitched sound waves.

Bobby slid onto a stool around the corner of the bar so he could face the other three. Without many other options, Crowley remained standing rather than sit on a stool. Without having to be asked, Ellen slid a beer down the bar to Bobby, then gave Crowley an inquiring look. In response, he held up the glass from Bobby’s study that had traveled with him when nothing else had thus far. He took a sip, if only to verify that it was still there, and was reassured by the familiar taste.

Mullet man was the first to speak out of the three, grinning broadly. “Bobby! Welcome back, compadre.”

While twisting open his beer, Bobby replied, “Hey Ash. Frank, Charlie, good to see y’all. Still bangin’ your heads against the same ol’ project?”

Though all three seemed frustrated at the mere mention of “the project”, all reacted differently. Ash’s brow furrowed in determination, Charlie (not Charlene) seemed least frustrated and more optimistic, and Frank’s eyes widened as he leaned towards Bobby and said, “Easy there, Johnny Danger. Just how sure are you that this cat wasn’t planted by the halos?”

Charlie shook her head and answered before Bobby could. “Frank, if the angels wanted to get a spy in here, do you really think they’d redeem a _demon_ to do it? The King of Hell, no less? Come on.”

Frank tried to object, but Bobby overrode him. “Look Frank, I found him playin’ with his dog, alright? He was pettin’ his puppy. You really gonna tell me someone whose heaven is pettin’ a goddamn puppy is some sorta spy?”

“Excuse you,” Crowley interrupted. “Juliet is a hellhound, and a bloody good one at that. And what makes you think I want anything to do with Sunshine, Skynyrd, and the Paranoid Wonder? And for that matter, why are we hiding?”

Everyone seemed to want to answer that at once, but Bobby spoke over them. “C’mon guys, it’s my story to tell.” Turning to face Crowley, he continued, “Time don’t mean much up here, but whenever it was that Dean had that Mark on his arm, Sam an’ Cas were gettin’ desperate. Long story short, they needed my help to break the Scribe of God outta his prison cell so they could grill him for info. Angels were none too pleased ‘bout that, so they locked me in my room an’ warded the shit outta it.”

Bobby paused to salute Ash with his beer. “Dunno how long I was alone in there, but Ash found me an’ broke me out. He’s the one ‘s been roundin’ up folks who ain’t content with their own heavens an’ would rather spend our eternity in good company. Taught us all how to navigate Heaven an’ how to keep the bastards from findin’ us to lock us up again. I figure we ain’t hurtin’ no one here, we’re just makin’ Heaven what it should’ve been in the first place.”

The information that Crowley had been struggling to process finally slotted into place. “The books. The _Supernatural_ book series, you were in them. You led the Winchesters through Heaven to meet with Joshua because they were trying to find God. I’m sure someone’s told you all about how that ended, so we can skip all that, but I would love to hear about how you’re navigating Heaven.”

Grinning again, Ash replied, “I thought you’d never ask, Grasshopper. It’s all based around String Theory and the—“

Bobby cut him off. “We can go over that later. Tell him about what you’re workin’ on now.”

With an irritated sniff, Ash pressed a few keys on his keyboard and the laptop unmuted. A dozen angelic voices were speaking at once, and if Crowley focused on one, he could follow a conversation with some difficulty, thanks to the time he had spent learning from Naomi all those years ago. The angel upon whom he was eavesdropping was saying something about nephilim and a person named Jack.

Ash muted the volume again. “See the problem? All our news is fragmented, and we can’t be listening to all of them at all times. Not even if Frank thinks we should.”

Looking frustrated but resigned, Frank shook his head. “You’ll be wishing you’d listened when the angelic raid comes to break down your door, Cupcake.”

“Ugh, you guys are too frakking slow,” interrupted Charlie. “We can listen, but it’s all broken apart, and we can find peeps, but it’s all trial and error, mainly. It’d be a bazillion times easier if we could get fresh news from the newbies. What we’re trying to do is map out Heaven, and lemme just say, it’s not even on the same scale as mapping the Undermountain campaign. There’s trillions of individual happily ever afters, and we think they might be temporally shifted.”

The audacity of their plan finally made Crowley lose his cool. “A map of Heaven? Are you mad?! The sheer scope of such an undertaking is astronomical! It would be much less hassle to tune your television to a satellite or surveillance camera or some such.”

All three perked up at that, and Ash said, “Wait, you can _do_ that?”

Shrugging, Crowley took a slow sip of his drink, taking the time to roll the flavour around his mouth. It occurred to him in that moment that he was tasting in a purely mortal fashion as he hadn’t truly done since he was Fergus. The flavours and aromas weren’t nearly as sharp as they had been when he’d had demonic senses. He set his glass down.

“If I could get my phone to work in Hell, I don’t see why I couldn’t get a television to connect in Heaven,” said Crowley. “It’s just a bit of witchcraft, though I’d imagine I’ll have to tinker with the spell a tad. We might need to do a bit of traveling to gather the proper ingredients, but you all seem to have that bit covered.”

Bobby quietly got up and walked over to join Rufus and Eileen, leaving Crowley with the trio of techies. The three of them babbled for a bit, the consensus of which seemed to be that they wanted to make Earth surveillance happen, but they also weren’t willing to give up on mapping Heaven, so would do both. They were an odd bunch, but it was refreshing to be surrounded by intelligent minds who wanted to improve their situation.

It wasn’t how he had expected to spend his afterlife, but in the end, he hadn’t expected to have an afterlife at all. And if he waited long enough, he might just be able to drag the Winchesters out of their own heavens — Cas, too, of course. If anyone could shake up Heaven and force them to change their ways, it was them, but Crowley would hold down the fort until they could join in.

With a smile for the barkeep, Crowley asked her, “If I give you the recipe for a drink, would you mind mixing one for me? I’d like to know how it’s supposed to taste when the imbiber isn’t a centuries-old demon.”

**Author's Note:**

> After that angst-fest from last month, I couldn't leave it there. Crowley deserved better than an eternity of bitter disappointment, so this was born. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I do. The title comes from the [song of the same name](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mIPvGpFJ0v0) that Crowley was listening to in Cas' truck. Thank you for reading, and if you liked it, I hope you'll leave me comments and kudos. Feedback from you is what helps the words flow. If you're on Tumblr, you can find me there as @thayerkerbasy


End file.
